TRIGGER WARNING: The following report contains references to unregulated fiber, generational appropriation of Jerry Garcia, and the phrase “adaptogenic bong water” without an accompanying safe word.

I want to hold space for the idea that your grandmother’s acid reflux might actually be her third eye trying to unionize.

In the latest skirmish of the culture war, Silicon Valley has pivoted from disrupting taxis to disrupting Grandma’s digestive tract. Enter Weed Whisperer™, the AI-powered cannabis-coaching app marketed to retirees whose idea of rebellion once involved driving 12 mph over the limit in a Buick Riviera. For the low, low price of $19.99/month (early-bird special, AARP discount code: Nostalgia), seniors can now “substrate-farm” their gut biomes with algorithm-curated micro-dose protocols so precise they make a Swiss watch look like a sundial drawn by a toddler.

“I asked ChatGPT to channel Jerry Garcia’s ghost,” boasts 71-year-old Dennis “Moonbeam” Henderson, proudly displaying his blockchain-verified Vintage Vibes NFT that allegedly proves he was spiritually present for the first puff of the 1969 smoke circle—despite being in Mrs. Caldwell’s fourth-grade class at the time. “Now my colon is basically a Phish concert. There’s a 23-minute jam happening in my sigmoid colon and the merch line is outrageous.”

According to internal documents leaked by a disgruntled kombucha sommelier, the app’s AI coach—trained on 10,000 hours of bootleg Grateful Dead tapes and every TED Talk ever given by a white guy in Patagonia—prescribes daily 0.3-milligram THC micro-doses delivered via time-release suppository. This ensures maximum bioavailability while preventing any inconvenient psychedelic epiphanies during Wheel of Fortune. The result? A gut flora so woke it writes think pieces about systemic oppression in the small intestine.

But wait, the disruption gets deeper. Each micro-dose is paired with a “memory gummy” that supposedly re-creates the exact terpene profile of the OG Woodstock air. Users receive push notifications like: “Congratulations, Barbara! Your pancreas just unlocked the Purple Haze achievement. NFT minted on the Ethereum blockchain. Gas fee waived in honor of Jimi’s ghost.”

Meanwhile, wellness influencer @BlissfulBongBabe—last seen hawking adaptogenic bong water infused with ethically harvested lion’s mane and the tears of a Himalayan shaman—has launched a competing platform called GanjaGranny™. It promises to turn your lower intestine into an ayahuasca retreat, complete with tiny yoga mats for the beneficial bacteria and a Slack channel where your lactobacilli can process their trauma.

Critics—by which I mean anyone over 25 who still pays student loans—argue this is merely late-stage capitalism’s latest grift: selling premium Doritos to people on fixed incomes under the guise of consciousness expansion. But the Boomers aren’t having it.

“Back in my day,” huffs 68-year-old Linda, clutching her diamond-encrusted vape pen like it’s a congressional medal, “we had to hike uphill both ways to buy a dime bag from a guy named Spider. Now my microbiome gets DoorDash.”

Is this liberation? Or just another subscription service colonizing the last uncommodified frontier: your literal colon? The jury—comprised entirely of AI-generated Jerry Garcias—remains out. Until then, Moonbeam’s sigmoid jam band has announced a surprise album drop only available as an NFT purchasable with Social Security direct deposit.

Boomers, man. They didn’t sell out; they just bought in.